Tears crowd her eyes. Streaming down her flushed cheeks. She stands in the kitchen and through blurred vision, holds the knife. She sniffs and sobs, and runs the blade over with a cloth. It’s shining tip glints through the foginess. Staring at it, she thinks. Another sob. Another sniffle. She contemplates if it’s really worth it. How much will it hurt? Pain dims her thoughts. She tests the sharpness, cutting off a hunk of wooden cupboard with a quick swing. Will he care if I go? Will he pay more attention to me in my death than while I was alive? What should I do? She presses the blade to her forearm, praying for forgiveness. Praying for the ability to press harder, to cut deeply into her artery. And she runs it along her skin. Blood wells up from the long but shallow wound. She falls to the floor, wailing in both physical and mental pain. The sobs wrack her body. She hold her frightened head in shaking hands. Her brown hair falls loose from it’s braid and cascades over her distraught face and mingles with the crimson blood streaming from her arms. And in this position, she stays. Just thinking about everything she’s done, and everything that’s to come. Tears and blood mingle. And the silence slowly drives her mad.